May 04, 2007

I first discovered the poems of Edward Thomas (1878-1917) as a child in my now out of print copy of All Day Long: An Anthology of Poetry for Children, compiled by Pamela Whitlock (Oxford University). Thmas wrote beautifully of the English countryside and the seasons. Later, in high school, I learned that he was also one of the World War I poets. And several years ago, I came across some of his prose at the library, a wonderful discovery. Equally wonderful, the discovery the other day of the website of the Edward Thomas Fellowship and also this page from the terrific Counter-Attack website of World War I literature, the result of a great deal of hard work from kidlitosphere friend Michele at Scholar's Blog.

Edward Thomas was known during his lifetime as a critic, essayist and writer of books about the countryside. Born in London, his happiest days as a youth were spent either wandering over the commons of South London or with relatives in the countryside near Swindon. Wiltshire was to remain his favourite county.

As a schoolboy, Thomas was encouraged to write by James Ashcroft Noble, who had recognised the boy's talent and was himself a distinguished man of letters and a neighbour. At Noble's home, Thomas met and fell in love with Helen Noble, whom he subsequently married while still an undergraduate at Oxford University. After gaining a second-class degree in History, he decided to pursue a career as a writer, having been encouraged by the publication of some nature essays and especially his first book, The Woodland Life, while he was still a student [1897].

That decision, opposed by his father, led to years of poorly paid prose writing, both books and journalism. Life was a struggle for Helen, the three children and himself. Undoubtedly, this contributed to sporadic depressive illness. Nevertheless, his prose work established him amongst the foremost critics of the day.

He was moving towards the writing of poetry when, in 1913, he met and became close friends with the American poet Robert Frost, who further encouraged him to write verse, which he commenced in December 1914. Into the next two years, he crammed all his verse writing. Before he saw his poetry in print under his own name, he was killed at the Battle of Arras on Easter Day 1917. Since then, Thomas's reputation as a poet has increased greatly and, perhaps as important, his posthumous influence on the development of English verse has been crucial. Poets as diverse as WH Auden, Philip Larkin and Derek Walcott have acknowledged their debt to him.

I was going to put up just Thomas's Sowing for today, but as I was reading through some of his other poems, I realized how many are about spring in general, and May in particular, so I decided to include a few others. That despite the fact that it's been pouring rain for two straight days and feels more like April than May, though the weather is great for the new pavement rose I planted yesterday morning.

Sowingby Edward Thomas (1898-1917)

It was a perfect dayFor sowing; justAs sweet and dry was the groundAs tobacco-dust.

I tasted deep the hourBetween the farOwl's chuckling first soft cryAnd the first star.

A long stretched hour it was;Nothing undoneRemained; the early seedsAll safely sown.

And now, hark at the rain,Windless and light,Half a kiss, half a tear,Saying good-night.

But These Things Alsoby Edward Thomas

But these things also are Spring's --On banks by the roadside the grassLong-dead that is greyer nowThan all the Winter it was;

The shell of a little snail bleachedIn the grass; chip of flint, and miteOf chalk; and the small bird's dungIn splashes of purest white: